


Help Me Forget

by its_just_us_here



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Drug Use, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, snuggles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_just_us_here/pseuds/its_just_us_here
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after his exit from the BAU, Derek returns to work, still grieving the loss of his wife and child in a freak car accident. He's seemingly determined to push away anyone who tries to help him, but perhaps he'll finally let our favorite resident genius in. Also, Spencer is using again. SO MUCH ANGST I'M SORRY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I wanted to write fluff about Reid and Morgan having sex after Morgan's chest scar? But then I felt like I needed a lot of plot to get there and then the plot became really angsty, so, um, here: Have this. I swear to you there will be porn and fluff eventually.

The blaring sound of his alarm clock jolted Derek Morgan awake. It was the first time he had woken up to an alarm in over a year, and with a groan he slammed his fist down on the snooze button harder than was probably necessary to turn it off. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes before staring up at the ceiling, stomach full of dread, but also numbness. He counted his breaths. _Just get up and move before you have time to think_ , he thought to himself, and then did exactly that.

Two years ago, all in a single 24 hour period, the following events had transpired: A deranged man attempted to kill Derek Morgan’s wife outside of a hospital; that very same man attempted to kill Derek Morgan in a twisted game of Russian Roulette; Derek Morgan’s wife gave birth to the most beautiful, precious baby boy; and, finally, Derek Morgan handed in his official resignation from the FBI’s elite Behavioral Analysis Unit. For eight months he lived in unmitigated, unqualified bliss. That is, until one year and two months ago, when his wife and baby boy were killed in a freak car accident, a chance collision in one of DC’s ubiquitous five-way intersections. All before Hank Spencer Morgan was even born, their young family had survived multiple murder attempts and medical complications, only to be completely shattered by one drunk driver and one missed red light and one _What if Savannah had stayed at the store for just one more minute?_

Derek reluctantly decided not to throw his alarm clock against the wall and stood up, shuffling to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth. He slid into the clothes he had carefully laid out the night before, like a school boy getting ready for his first day of third grade. _Just keep moving_.  There weren’t enough distractions in the year since the accident. Planning the funeral, selling the house, divesting himself of all reminders of his young family… that kept him busy for a _maybe_ a month. All of his BAU teammates came to the funeral. Derek was politely dismissive, thanking them for their condolences with an obvious lack of sincerity, brushing off their offers of dinners and get togethers with vague, fabricated scheduling conflicts. They stopped offering after a few weeks.

In the intervening time, Derek had busied himself with an intense workout regiment in the mornings followed by extensive day drinking and home repairs in the afternoons. He flipped three houses that year - no crew, no help. Just him. The daily combination of whiskey and powertools meant it was a miracle he hadn’t lost any limbs yet, but if he had, he probably wouldn’t have missed them anyway. What was missing was something much larger, more important.

A year went by. Derek woke up one morning and decided he was tired of being drunk every day. He filed the necessary paperwork to be reinstated to the BAU, mustered up the energy to grit his teeth and lie his way through a psych eval, and two months of government bureaucracy later, he was offered his old position back. He needed someplace to go home to. He had his mom and sisters in Chicago, sure - but that was a lifetime ago, a place that didn’t feel real to him anymore. There was a not-insignificant part of him that couldn’t ever go back there without feeling Carl Buford’s hands on him. The BAU was the only hope he had left.

There was no welcome back party for him, no pleasantries. By the time he finished with HR, the team was already huddled in the conference room discussing their new case. Hotch greeted him with a gruff, “Welcome back, Morgan,” before continuing with the briefing. Morgan took a seat at the round table. Garcia clutched his hand and beamed at him. Reid offered a meaningful nod, JJ a quick smile. But before they had a chance to actually talk, it was wheel’s up and building the profile and analysing victimology. The case was moving fast - faster than usual, but Derek preferred it that way anyway. They arrived at the local police station and hit the ground running. Derek - not yet cleared for field work - was left alone in a musty conference room to review case files. Refusing to stop and take any breaks, he plowed through three boxes’ worth by the time the team called it quits.

Back at the hotel, Hotch sternly explained that they had a limited number of rooms, and that JJ & Lewis, and Reid & Morgan would have to share. Reid glanced at him with a small, apologetic grin. Derek did his best to match it, inwardly groaning, wanting nothing but to be alone and under a scalding hot shower. They walked into the room in strained silence, each setting their bag down on a bed, mutually avoiding eye contact.

Finally, Reid let out a frustrated sigh. “Hey, I, um… Morgan… How are you?” he asked in a tiny, hesitant voice.

Morgan looked up and smirked. “Just dandy,” he replied sarcastically. It wasn't meant as a joke; his tone was cruel, defensive.

Reid looked down at his go bag with furrowed brows, obviously hurt by the other agent’s response. He opened his mouth to respond, but decided against it. When he looked up at Morgan a second later, his eyes were wet but all he asked was, “Do you mind if I use the shower first?”

Maybe six months ago, Reid would’ve pushed harder, or at least defended himself by arguing that he deserved more than sarcasm and dismissal from someone who used to be his closest friend. But over the last year, Reid had done everything he could think of to help Morgan through his grief, and every time his offers to help were shot down, the responses from Morgan growing ruder and crueler before they stopped entirely.

Morgan’s features softened momentarily but his eyes remained cold. “Sure, kid,” he grunted.

While Spencer showered, Derek laid in bed staring at the ceiling, the same way he had this morning. He counted his breaths. He tapped out a rhythm on his stomach. He tried not to think about where the nearest liquor store was, or how late it was open, or whether room service could deliver drinks on a separate, personal tab that Hotch never had to see. He grew increasingly annoyed at how long Spencer was taking in the shower, and also simultaneously aware that that Spencer had only been in there for a few minutes: nothing worth getting upset over. That’s how his mind worked these days. He was constantly full of contradictory thoughts: His real feelings matched by his own self-awareness that his feelings didn’t make sense. He was just angry. All of the time. And being angry about the things he should be angry about wasn’t enough. The drunk driver who stole his family and future was dead, justice had been appropriately meted out by the universe in one swift crunch of metal on metal. Without a person to blame, his anger felt displaced; it needed something tangible to latch onto, whether that was a glass he could hurl at the wall or a wall he could knock down in a renovated house, or whether it was a shy, kind, beautiful genius who was learning the hard way not to make any sudden movements in his presence.

When the water stopped, Derek sighed and rubbed his face. The anger wouldn’t go away, and that, in turn, made him feel guilty. He decided to just spend the night not talking to Reid. His silence would probably be hurtful, sure - but also not as bad as what was bound to come out of his mouth. When Spencer emerged, Derek was still laying on the bed staring into space, almost in a trance.

As Spencer rummaged through his belongings, an errant swing of his arm knocked his leather messenger bag off the bed, spilling all of its contents impressively wide across the hotel room floor. The loud thud and the soft sound of Spencer swearing under his breath woke Derek up from his reverie, and he quickly gathered his clothes and shower things to walk towards the bathroom.

On the way there, something caught his eye. He stopped in his tracks and looked down. Spencer was kneeling nearby, grasping for loose sheets of paper with unintelligible notes scribbled on them, and noticed the sudden lack of movement. He looked up at Derek’s face before following his gaze back down to the floor, and then they were both staring at it.

“What the fuck, Reid?” Derek spat.

Spencer’s face went red. “It’s… just… Morgan, don’t…” he tried to explain, but the words wouldn’t come to him, and there wasn’t really any good explanation to offer anyway.

Derek leaned over and picked it up gingerly, reading the vial to confirm his suspicion, before holding it up in front of Spencer’s face. “Dilaudid? Are you using?”

“I… N-n-no. I’m not using, I swear. I just… Carry it? It… I can’t explain it. It makes me feel better, just knowing it’s there,” Spencer stammered out.

“What did you tell me about this stuff? That you liked it because it helped you forget? What do you have to _forget_ , Pretty Boy? What’s going on in your life that’s _so hard_ , huh?” Derek’s tone was menacing, the implication clear: No one had the right to hurt as bad as Derek was hurting.

Derek’s words were knocking the wind out of him, but still Spencer couldn’t respond; couldn’t take his eyes away from the precious vial in his hand. He needed it back. He needed to get it back without seeming desperate, without seeming like the addict that he was. It was true that he hadn’t been using, but it was also true that he _needed_ that vial to stay with him.

Spencer was standing now, face to face with Derek in an impromptu staring contest. “What’s the matter, huh? Cat got your tongue? What do you need this stuff for, Spencer?” Derek’s voice was getting louder and more aggressive with each question, when finally Spencer spotted his shoulder pulling backwards. He knew what was about to happen and he couldn’t let it. Spencer lunged forward, clutching Derek’s elbow with one hand and the vial with another, wrestling it free from his grip just before it was launched at the hotel room wall.

Derek was so caught off guard by Spencer’s reaction that he didn’t put up much of a fight, the vial changing hands quickly. For a moment Derek stared at him with scorn and pity as Spencer returned the vial to an interior pocket of his messenger bag with shaking hands.

“Fucking pathetic. Is that your fucking safety blanket? Poor baby Spencer can’t get through a day without it? Are you that weak now?” Derek knew the words coming out his mouth were unfair and uncharacteristic. But a very small part of him also knew he wasn’t really talking to Spencer, and he definitely wasn’t talking about dilaudid.

Now that he wasn’t preoccupied with getting the vial back, Spencer seemed to be taking in Derek’s words fully for the first time. His face crumpled with hurt for only a brief moment. He turned away, setting his features in feigned indifference, before resuming his task. Silently, Spencer gathered the rest of his materials, picked up his messenger bag and go bag, and wordlessly walked out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek shows up drunk at Spencer's apartment in the middle of the night. This chapter could probably be summarized as angst and then fluff and then angst.

Derek never did find out where Spencer went that night, not that he had an opportunity to ask, nor did he try to seek one out. The team spent three more nights in Indianapolis closing the case. The remaining nights, Spencer made a point of returning to the room after Derek fell asleep and leaving before he got up, sneaking around in the darkness to hide from his secret that had now been revealed. He was still hurt over Derek’s words, but more than that he felt ashamed and exposed. But the two men avoided each other in equal measure and the subject didn’t come up again for quite some time.

Weeks passed. Derek and Spencer were virtual strangers; showing each other exactly as much consideration as was necessary to solve cases, and nothing more. With everyone else, Derek was finally beginning to soften around the edges. Being back at work gave him a sense of purpose, and - when they got it right - a feeling of pride. Although he hadn’t thought it would ever be possible, he started to think about Savannah and Hank less and less. He was still healing, but his identity no longer centered solely around his grief.

But as he was slowly reintegrating into the team, it seemed as though Spencer was pulling away. It wasn’t just Derek who was getting the cold shoulder. Reid was quieter than usual; fewer statistics, no more practical jokes. Whenever the team went out to celebrate after a successful case - or commiserate after an unsuccessful one - he would politely decline and head home early. Derek pulled JJ aside to ask her about it one day. “It started when you left,” she said, looking up at him with sad eyes.

“When I left?” Derek repeated, unbelieving.

“He won’t talk to anyone about it. We’ve all tried,” she confirmed with a resigned shrug before Rossi walked in and they went back to discussing the case.

Derek kept watching Spencer from afar. He wanted to pull him aside to talk, but didn’t feel like he had the right anymore, not after what he had said to him in that hotel room. He was painfully aware that he and he alone had dissolved their relationship, but the idea of fessing up to his wrongdoings to repair it was too much for him to face. Derek was doing better, but grief isn’t a linear process. Some days were easier than others, and he hadn’t freed himself of all of his bad habits yet. Over a long weekend in July, Derek found himself staring several days of free time in the face with no way to fill it other than a few bottles of cheap wine and doing his best to keep his demons at bay. He wasn’t very successful.

It was about 1 in the morning when Spencer heard the pounding on his door. His first reaction was fear: a trembling hand reaching for his gun in the drawer. There was no good reason for an FBI agent’s door to be the subject of such aggressive pounding at this time of night. But the yelling came just a few seconds later, a familiar voice calling out, “Reid! Hey, Reid! It’s me! Let me in, man!”

Spencer groaned and crawled out of bed. Glancing at his left arm, he hastily reached for a CalTech sweatshirt before leaving his room, and was halfway through tugging it on when he opened the door to a very disheveled, very wobbly Derek Morgan.

Derek’s face lit up for a second. “Hey, Rei - Why are you putting on a sweatshirt, man? It’s like a million degrees,” Derek asked, acting like nothing was wrong between the two of them, reaching out and nipping at the fabric on Spencer’s arm. “You’re sweating,” he continued, reaching his other hand up to smooth out Spencer’s hair. Derek was a fairly tactile person and only became more so when he was drinking.

Spencer batted away his hands. “You’re drunk,” he observed flatly. “Why are you here?”

Taking that as an invitation, Derek walked - stumbled? - into the apartment while Spencer sighed resignedly. “We should talk,” Derek declared.

“Um.  _ Now _ ?”

Derek ignored that. He leaned against a wall and turned to his coworker. “Are you mad at me?”

Spencer exhaled sharply and rubbed his face, trying to calculate the easiest and quickest way to get Derek out of his apartment. “No,” he said simply.

“You’re lying,” Derek spat back.

“Morgan, go home. We’ll talk later. Do you need me to call you a cab?” Spencer turned away to reach for his phone but felt a strong hand on his shoulder pulling him back.

“Look at me. Are you mad at me?” Derek pressed.

It was too much for Spencer. His anger at Derek had been building for months and he was especially annoyed about being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. “ _ Of course I’m mad at you! _ ” he yelled. “You treat me like crap for months, you tell me I’m weak and pathetic, you never bother to apologize for it, and now the only time you want to talk is when you’re drunk and it’s one in the morning?  _ Why are you here? _ ”

Derek was looking down at the ground. Spencer had never seen him so sad. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. He looked up at Spencer. “I’m drunk and I’m sad and I’m angry all the time and I don’t have anyone to turn to. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Spencer bit his tongue before pointing out that Derek had caused at least some of the items on his list. He considered the other man for a moment, recognizing the look and desperation in his face all too well because he had been there a time or two himself. He was busy weighing his empathy against his residual hurt when Derek took a step towards him and kept talking.

“I’m so sorry, Kid. I don’t know what else to say except that I’m sorry. It wasn’t me in that hotel room talking, it was… Or, I don’t know… Maybe it was me but I wasn’t talking to you, you know?” Derek wasn’t making much sense, but the overwhelming smell of alcohol on his breath clued Spencer in to his meaning. Derek reached out a tentative hand and rested it gingerly on Spencer’s neck, needing some sort of physical contact to reassure him. “I just… I don’t want to be myself anymore. I don’t want to be this guy who’s pushing people away and hurting them all the time.” Derek looked at him with pleading eyes.

“You were going through alcohol withdrawal on your first case back, weren’t you?” Spencer asked hesitantly.

Derek’s brows furrowed. Of course Spencer would pick up on it. This was the guy who kept track of Derek’s heart rate by watching his carotid. He didn’t want to admit it, but when he said he wanted to stop pushing people away he meant it, and he owed Spencer whatever information he wanted to know. With a curt nod, he confirmed Spencer’s suspicions.

Spencer reached a hand up and placed it on top of Derek’s before pulling him in for a hug. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist and in response Derek snaked an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, the other one reaching up and tangling in his hair. They stood for a moment, breathing together. Derek pulled the other man closer, tighter; Spencer didn’t know for sure, but he was almost certain he felt a few wet drops falling onto his neck.

Trailing a reassuring hand up and down Derek’s spine, Spencer turned his head and mumbled into Derek’s neck, “C’mon, let’s go lie down.” He pulled back a few inches and looked into Derek’s face, who responded with a gentle nod.

Spencer led the way into his bedroom. He rummaged in a drawer for his biggest pair of sweats and held them out. “Here, you can change into these if you want to. I’ll be right back, make yourself comfortable,” he instructed.

Derek took them with a weak smile before Spencer walked out of the room. He changed and crawled onto the bed, laying on his stomach, his head turned and staring vacantly at the wall. Everything was still spinning slightly. A few moments later, Spencer returned with a bottle of Advil and a giant glass of water. “Helps with the hangover,” he said, placing them on the bedside table.

Derek sat up, taking a few long sips and popping some of the pills. Spencer leaned back against his dresser, regarding him. Hesitantly, Derek reached out a hand. “Will you… um, lay with me? ...If you want to?” He probably would have never asked without all the liquid courage he had consumed that night. His sigh of relief was audible in the small room when Spencer took a step forward and reached out for his hand.

Sliding to the far side of the bed, Derek nestled under the covers, holding them up for Spencer to crawl in next to him. For a few seconds, the two men laid on their sides, facing each other. Derek’s eyelids started to droop. “‘M so tired,” he mumbled, closing them fully.

Spencer reached out and traced light patterns up and down Derek’s arm. “I know,” he cooed quietly. “Go to sleep.”

A few minutes later, Derek’s breathing slowed as he dropped into the most peaceful sleep he’d had in a long time. Not long after, Spencer followed, too.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Derek was the first to wake up the next morning. They were more or less in the same position, but closer. Their legs were tangled together, each man had an arm lazily thrown over the other’s waist. Spencer’s head was tucked under Derek’s chin; Derek could feel his warm breath on his chest, cherishing the calming rhythm. The older man reached a hand up and gently stroked Spencer’s curls, whispering softly down to him, “Reid. Wake up.”

Spencer groaned and pushed his face closer into Derek’s chest. Derek let him. It was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. Many years ago - way before Savannah - Derek had suffered for a long time with a seemingly incurable crush on Spencer Reid. Perhaps it had never really gone away; even as Derek fell in love with Savannah, started and then lost a family, it was lying in wait under his skin. Holding Reid in his arms, lazily cuddled in bed, was awakening feelings he had long ago shoved aside. Feelings he had never acted upon because if there was anyone in this world who was undeniably and quantifiably out of Derek’s league, it was certainly Spencer. The man was a genius, and so beautiful, and so kind. He had lost so much and been hurt so many times but he never let it make him bitter. Derek didn’t deserve him, but, God. He wanted him.

It took Spencer a minute but his mind finally realized that he did not usually start his days by burrowing into the warmth of a very muscular chest in his bed. He pulled back, almost startled, squinting up at Derek. “Morgan?” he asked, mentally piecing together why they were sharing a bed.

“Good morning, Pretty Boy,” Derek murmured softly, still gently caressing his hair. They took each other in. “And I’m sorry,” he added earnestly.

Spencer reached a hand up to rub his eyes. “What for?” he asked.

“For coming over here drunk in the middle of the night. For all the shit I said to you when I came back to work. I’m just… I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” he said, looking up with understanding eyes. Spencer returned his hand to Derek’s waist, tracing small circles, and let their breathing synchronize.

Derek reached for his hand and held it, his other hand taking hold of the cuff of Spencer’s sweatshirt sleeve. He looked Spencer directly in the eye, giving him a chance to pull away. When Spencer returned his gaze, Derek slowly pushed up the sleeve and saw the bruises and track marks. They were fresh, probably in the last few days, with more faded ones resting underneath. He didn’t say anything, pulling Spencer’s sleeve back down and looking back at his face. Spencer was looking away, avoiding eye contact.

“ _ You _ were my security blanket,” he whispered quietly.

“What do you…” Derek started, confused, but then it clicked. “What I said before… ?”

Spencer gave a small nod. “You were my security blanket and then you left.” His voice was so quiet.

When Spencer finally looked at him again, his eyes were wet and his face was red. Derek brought a hand up to his face, rubbing Spencer’s cheek gently with this thumb. What happened next was all instinct; Derek was acting on pure impulse when he leaned in and softly brushed his lips against Spencer’s. Spencer was caught off guard at first, but when their lips met again he allowed them to slot together, the perfect fit. Their mouths moved against each other gently; lazy and slow and full of meaning. Spencer reached his arm all the way over Derek’s waist, clutching at the fabric on Derek’s back, pulling him in close. When his lips parted slightly, Derek deepened the kiss and whimpered softly when their tongues met.

They stayed that way for awhile before Spencer pulled back abruptly. He rolled over and swung his legs off the bed before Derek could even react; but before Spencer could stand up, Derek had a hand firmly around his wrist.

“Hey, Kid, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Derek asked.

Spencer took a shaky breath and looked down at him over his shoulder. “We can’t do this. You’ll… leave,” he croaked out as a tear slid down his cheek. He frantically wiped it away and continued, “You’ve left already. Everybody leaves.”

Derek didn’t have a response. The fact that everyone Spencer loved had left him was more or less objectively true. Spencer yanked his hand away and got up, leaving the room.

Scrambling after him, Derek found him in the kitchen, making coffee with shaking hands. He walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Spencer from behind. “ _ Please _ talk to me about this,” he murmured into Spencer’s neck, nosing his jaw gently.

“I want you to go,” Spencer said firmly, using both hands to remove Derek’s from his stomach. He turned around and looked at Derek, face-to-face. The coldness in his gaze told Derek it wasn’t up for debate.

He ran his fingers reassuringly through the younger man’s hair one last time. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it, okay?” The response he was looking for didn’t come. Spencer turned around to face the counter again, picking up the bag of coffee beans. Derek let out a disappointed sigh before leaving the apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's in the hospital and calls Derek for help.
> 
> In the interest of full disclosure, I am DrunkTM and so this chapter is prob not ~the best~ but I'll edit it later sober. Maybe. We'll see.

For the next several weeks, Spencer and Derek awkwardly avoided each other, to the extent that their teammates couldn’t help but notice. When JJ approached Spencer, gently asking him why he was showing so much hostility to his former best friend, she was met simply with an angry rant and a dramatic sigh as he stormed out of the room. Meanwhile, Penelope grilled Derek for information, interrogating him BAU-profiler style. All she got in response was, “I don’t know, Baby Girl, he has some shit to deal with, okay!?” and a slammed door.

Hotch was debating how long to let it go on before he stepped in. The men couldn’t be paired up on cases, couldn’t share hotel rooms, could barely manage to agree on a profile. So far it hadn’t actually impeded their ability to solve any cases, but that day was coming soon. Hotch respected them both greatly, as friends and as profilers; but he had a job to do as team lead, and the tension couldn’t go on much longer.

Before Hotch was forced to make a decision, Derek received a phone call late one Tuesday night. They had gotten back from a case on Sunday and were granted a luxurious Monday and Tuesday off before they were to dive back in on Wednesday. Derek hadn’t been sleeping well lately, between fighting off his alcohol cravings and obsessively replaying his kiss with Reid there wasn’t much rest to be found. He didn’t know what to do; he was sure that Spencer had feelings for him, and - more importantly - that the young genius was battling his own inner demons and drug addiction. Derek wanted so badly to help him, but even the smallest attempt to offer comfort was met with cold glares and downright contempt from Spencer. It made Derek angry, but also sympathetic; he could relate all too well to Spencer’s inner turmoil.

So when Derek’s phone started vibrating at 9pm, a mere hour after he had mercifully managed to pass out in his own bed, he groaned and silently cursed whoever had dared to interrupt his slumber. He didn’t bother to look at the caller ID before answering with a harsh, “What?”

The voice on the other end was quiet, timid. “Um… Derek?”

He exhaled forcefully, trying to figure out what would cause Spencer to phone him after two months of outright contempt. “Kid?” was all he got out.

“I… is this a bad time? I’m really sorry…”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled over onto his back. “No, it’s fine, I just… I just finally got to sleep. What’s going on?”

Spencer’s exhale on the other hand was shaky, clearly on the verge of tears. “I’m so sorry, I don’t want to bother you, I just… there’s no one else I can call, and I…”

“Spencer. What is going on?” Derek cut him off in a stern voice.

“I’m at the hospital and I need you to come get me,” Spencer squeaked out.

At that, Derek sprung out of bed and into action. “You’re _ in the hospital _ !?” he practically screamed over the phone. “Jesus Christ, why didn’t you lead with that, Kid?”

Derek was groping in his laundry basket for sweatpants as Spencer feebly tried to reassure him. “I’m fine, I swear, I’m fine. It’s just… Well, I… Derek, please will you just come get me?”

Derek grunted his consent before hanging up the phone and jogging out to his Jeep. He parked haphazardly at the hospital before sprinting to the parking garage elevator, pounding the lobby button as hard as he could, and huffing out his anger at even the smallest delay as the elevator made several stops on its way to the main floor. His mind was racing with all sorts of possibilities - that Spencer had been attacked by an unsub, that he had fallen down a flight of stairs in his characteristic clumsiness, or - nagging at the back of his mind: that he had overdosed, shot up one too many times on a day off. It was that uncertainty that fueled Derek’s impatience as he ran up to the nurse’s station demanding to know where to find a Dr. Spencer Reid. A gruff nurse looked at him and merely pointed to the room behind him.

He turned around and could see Spencer’s tall, lanky form in the bed. Spencer’s head was turned away, so Derek was granted the smallest moment to take it all in. The IV in his arm. The monitors hooked up to his chest. The hospital gown. He looked so goddamn fragile in that bed.

Derek approached the doorway slowly, feeling like he was intruding on a particularly vulnerable moment, but then he remembered that of all people Spencer could’ve called for help, he chose him. He knocked his knuckles lightly on the door frame, calling out a tentative, “Hey there, Pretty Boy.”

Spencer turned his head and their eyes met, the younger man’s brows furrowing in distress. “Derek, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, I’m fine…”

As Spencer rambled, Derek came to his bedside and picked up his hand, his other hand reaching out to softly caress Spencer’s cheek. For so many weeks, Derek had been filled with anger at Spencer’s avoidant and dismissive behavior, but seeing him here, like this, so obviously hurting… all of his instincts told him that this was a person who needed comfort.

“Shhh. Just tell me what’s going on,” he murmured softly. Whatever had brought Spencer to this hospital bed was not immediately obvious, and Derek’s heart was pounding loudly in his ears; he was full of dread, nerves on edge waiting to find out what had happened.

Spencer stared down at his fingers. “When we got back on Sunday I threw out all of my Dilaudid. The withdrawals… they were bad, worse than the first time, worse than they were after any of the other relapses. I was sweating and shaking, couldn’t keep anything down. By yesterday I was severely dehydrated and becoming malnourished, so I came to the ER and checked myself in.” Spencer’s cheeks were red, his shame apparent on his face.

Spencer paused for a moment, so Derek filled the silence, gently tipping Spencer’s face up to meet his. “You did the right thing,” he said.

They locked eyes for a moment before Spencer looked away again. “Anyway,” he went on, “they wouldn’t discharge me without someone to drive me home, and you’re the only person who knew that…” Spencer trailed off momentarily. “Well, who  _ knew _ .”

Derek nodded his understanding, but before he had a chance to say anything a petite, kind-faced doctor walked in.

“I presume you’re Agent Morgan?” she chirped.

“Yes, Doctor,” he nodded.

She gestured for him to follow her into the hallway. Derek gave Spencer’s hand a squeeze before leaving his bedside.

Left alone again, Spencer pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, rubbing vigorously. The gentle pressure on his sinuses was calming. He hated this. He hated that everyone presumed he couldn’t take care of himself just because of his… problem. He hated that he had let it get so bad. He hated that he needed a caretaker. He hated that everyone assumed his psyche was so fragile that Derek needed to receive his instructions in the hallway and not in his hospital room. Spencer couldn’t hear their conversation through the window but could see as Derek listened attentively, nodding at the appropriate times, showing concern, asking questions. On a certain level he knew he should feel lucky to have Derek, who had come to his rescue despite not having any good reason to; but mostly he felt bitter at his loss of independence, at the way they were coddling him.

A few minutes later, they came back in. “Dr. Reid, as we discussed earlier, now that you have someone to look out for you over the next day or so, I feel comfortable discharging you. Are you still having any withdrawal symptoms?”

Spencer swallowed thickly. “No.”

“Good. It’s important that you stay hydrated once we take the IVs out. Lots of water, lots of bland foods over the next 24 hours. You understand?”

 

He nodded curtly. “Yes.”

The doctor signed off on a chart. “A nurse will be in shortly to complete your discharge and provide some information on local rehabilitation centers. Any questions?”

Spencer’s reply was weak. “No, ma’am.”

She left them alone. Derek leaned in, stroking Spencer’s hair. “How are you doing?” he whispered softly.

He was starting to break down. “Don’t,” Spencer sobbed forcefully, jerking away from Derek’s touch.

Derek pulled back momentarily. “Don’t what?” he asked.

“Don’t treat me like… I’m not… Everyone here keeps treating me like I’m an invalid, like I can’t make my own choices or take care of myself or be trusted, or… I brought myself here, you know? I didn’t have to come. But I knew when I needed help. And I know when other people need help, I took care of… when she was… I’m not  _ broken _ .” The words were spilling out of him, so much anger and sadness that had clearly been building up for a long time.

When the words slowed, Derek murmured softly, “I know you don’t need me, Kid. God, you’ve been to hell and back without a single person to help you, over and over again. I know you can do all of this on your own. But just because you don’t  _ need _ me doesn’t mean you can’t accept the help that’s being offered to you. Just let me drive you home, help you get settled. We’ll go from there, hmm?”

Spencer gave a small nod as the nurse came in. She efficiently disconnected the IVs, had them sign the appropriate paperwork, pulled out Spencer’s personal items that had been collected upon admission, and informed them they were free to leave once Spencer changed and was ready.

Derek set Spencer’s clothes on the bed next to him. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he said before leaning in and brushing his lips softly against Spencer’s forehead. He hadn’t even thought about it before it happened; it was an automatic response, it was simply the kind of comfort you offer to someone who you love. As he pulled away Derek watched nervously for a reaction, but Spencer’s only response was a deep blush spreading from his cheeks to his neck. Derek smiled to himself and walked out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um, porn.

The two men drove home from the hospital in near silence. Spencer leaned his head against the passenger window and closed his eyes. Derek couldn’t say for sure whether he was actually tired or just avoiding conversation; or, more likely, a combination of the two. As Derek turned the corner onto Spencer’s seat, the younger man sat up and stared straight ahead.

Derek glanced over at him. “You give any thoughts to those pamphlets the nurse gave you?”

Spencer sighed. “Did you know that there have actually been no rigorous, scientific studies of the famous 12-step program used in almost every rehabilitation center in the United States? The anonymous aspect of drug and alcohol treatment precludes researchers from evaluating success rates, and even then, people who relapse are seen to have failed at the program, rather than the program failing them.” He looked out the window. “The idea that you’ll be a recovering addict for the rest of your life… That’s not how other countries approach rehab. When I went to those beltway cops meetings… I don’t know, it just made me feel hopeless, although I guess I’ve proven them right,” he concluded dryly.

Derek knew he had to tread carefully and didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Instead he reached out and gave Spencer’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Did you ever consider rehab?” Spencer’s asked, his tone curious, and a little hesitant.

“Nah. I’m too screwed up for rehab, man,” Derek chuckled self-consciously. “The shit we see? Watching people die every day, watching our own loved ones die… There’s no way they know how to help us through that. We can only help each other,” he said with a meaningful look towards Spencer as they pulled up to his apartment building.

Spencer looked at Derek before looking down at his lap. “Yeah,” he said quietly, and they got out of the car.

Derek followed Spencer into the apartment. The younger agent took a few shaky steps before dropping his satchel by a table in the hallway. He sighed and leaned over against the wall; every bone and muscle in his body ached. He had never been so tired.

Walking up to him from behind, Derek placed a gentle hand on his lower back. “What do you need?”

“I need this to not be happening to me,” Spencer replied bitterly. He shifted so that his back was against the wall and he was looking at Derek with a smirk. “I need to get high, but that’s not exactly a choice right now.”

The bluntness of Spencer’s comment caught Derek off guard for a moment. It was enough time for Spencer to reach out for one of Derek’s belt loops to pull them flush together. Instinctively, Derek braced one arm on the wall by Spencer’s shoulder and his other hand reached out for Spencer’s hip. Their faces were practically touching. Spencer snaked an arm around Derek’s torso as he whispered, “Is this okay?”

Derek sighed and looked down slightly, bringing their foreheads together. “Kid, I…” he trailed off. “We should talk about this.” His voice came out huskier than he wanted it to, and more unsure. Whatever was about to happen, Derek wanted it so badly he wasn’t sure he could stick to his convictions and make the kid talk to him before diving in.

“We’ll talk later,” Spencer said simply, closing the gap between their lips. Derek could feel Spencer’s lips moving against his on the last word and that was all the motivation he needed. Derek leaned in hungrily, trapping Spencer’s bottom lip between his teeth, causing Spencer to let out a soft whine.

It was immediately obvious that both men had been waiting for this exact moment for a long time; there had been so much build up that it was desperate right away, rough kisses and groping hands and loud moans. Derek forced his tongue into Spencer’s mouth, his hands now gripping Spencer’s tiny waist with bruising pressure, pulling him in closer and closer, God - their bodies couldn’t be close enough together. Spencer was encouraging him, his fingertips digging into Derek’s lower back so hard it almost hurt as their hips started to rock together.

Spencer was panting so hard that he broke the kiss and let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. Derek kissed along his jaw to his neck, sucking a bruise underneath Spencer’s left ear as the younger man groaned. The contrast of Derek’s hot, wet tongue and scratchy stubble caused Spencer to jut his hips forward, searching for friction. Derek smirked against Spencer’s collarbone and dragged a hand down his chest, down his stomach, lower and lower until... 

“Fuck, Derek!” Spencer whined.

“Tell me what you want, Pretty Boy,” Derek whispered in his ear. He was palming Spencer through his pants, nimble fingertips searching out the head of his cock and teasing it, making the squirming genius more and more incoherent by the second.

“Nnngh, please,” he groaned.

Derek chuckled against his neck. “Hmmm, who knew that Dr. Spencer Reid was so damn loud?” His hand was stroking the length of Spencer’s erection over his pants.

Spencer’s face was flushed red. “Shut up,” he laughed between deep breaths.

The young doctor looked so goddamn gorgeous, Derek thought to himself. He was all blushing cheeks and bashful smiles and furrowed brows, his face looking completely blissed out as he allowed Derek’s hands to wander wherever he wanted. Derek pulled his hand away from Spencer’s cock and cupped his face gently, leaning in for another kiss, just a little bit slower this time, savoring it. Derek was terrified that this was all just a distraction to Spencer; something to do instead of shooting up, that it would be the last time he’d let Derek touch him like this, taste him like this. He needed to memorize those lips. Derek moved his hand from Spencer’s face to the back of his head, tangling in his curls, while his other hand grasped Spencer’s shoulder firmly, grounding him.

Spencer slowed things down, too; his hands wandered aimlessly over Derek’s muscular body. They ran gently up and down his chest and stomach, around his waist, over his back, trailing from his shoulders to his elbows and back up again. There wasn’t a single part of Derek that Spencer didn’t want to feel under his fingertips. His hands ran along Derek’s belt, slipping underneath the fabric of his shirt and grasping urgently at his back. But when he clutched the fabric firmly and tugged upwards, Derek’s hands found his and pulled them away. He pulled his lips back just long enough to whisper a simple, “No,” before his lips were back on top of Spencer’s.

Spencer was confused but was pretty sure he knew what was happening. He brought a hand pointedly to Derek’s belt buckle. “Was that a ‘No, don’t take my shirt off,’ or a ‘No, don’t take any of my clothes off?’” he murmured.

Derek let out a sharp exhale at the feel of Spencer’s fingers dipping teasingly under his waistband. “Shirt,” he said softly, clearly a little embarrassed as he moved to hide his face by sucking on Spencer’s earlobe.

Already undoing Derek’s belt, Spencer whispered reassuringly, “I know what I’m going to see, Derek, you don’t have to hide it.” He tugged Derek’s pants down so they pooled around his knees and a hand found its way to Derek’s erection.

“Just leave it, Kid,” Derek spat out, more bitterly than he had meant to, before groaning and pressing his hips forward. Spencer didn’t seem to react to it, instead busying himself with pulling down Derek’s boxer briefs and grasping his cock firmly in his long, slender fingers. Derek thrust forward into the touch as he reached out for Spencer’s belt, impatiently tugging the younger man’s pants and boxers down as well, a calloused hand wrapping around Spencer’s cock, and soon enough they were moving against each other urgently.

After a few thrusts Spencer was more or less nonverbal; panting and moaning and using his free hand to grasp needily at Derek’s bicep, but no actual words. Derek relished seeing him like this. He leaned in, his free hand wrapping around Spencer’s throat - no actual pressure, just suggestion. His mouth came up to the shell of Spencer’s ear.

“Is this what you wanted, Pretty Boy? To feel my hand wrap around you?”

Spencer gave a small, quick nod in response, his hand speeding up on Derek’s cock in proportion to his own desperation. Derek moved his hand from Spencer’s throat up into his hair, grasping and tugging his head to the side. Spencer’s groans got even louder as his hips stuttered out of rhythm. Derek laughed; he had no way of knowing for sure, but he had been pretty sure that would be the reaction he’d get.

“Hmmm, you like it a little bit rough, huh?” Spencer’s blush was answer enough. Derek leaned forward slightly, using the weight of his body to more fully pin Spencer against the wall.

Derek tightened his hold on Spencer’s hair just slightly. “How else could I rough you up, Kid? What if I bent you over that round table in the conference room and fucked you real hard? Would you like that?”

In between pants, Spencer let out a breathless, “Yes, God, please. DerekI’mSoClose.”

Derek’s tone darkened. “Yeah, I bet you are. I want you to come for me. Show me how bad you need this.”

Spencer’s whole body was tensing and finally he cried out as he spilled over Derek’s hand. Stroking him through his orgasm, Derek leaned forward to capture his mouth and swallow his groans. Feeling Spencer’s come on him got Derek that much closer, and with a few more quick jerks of Spencer’s hand, Derek was coming too. He pressed his face into Spencer’s neck as he cried out and clung to the man before him.

They stayed pressed together for a few moments as their breathing slowed. Spencer wiped his own hand on his t-shirt, but reached out for Derek’s wet hand and brought it up to his lips, licking it clean, his eyes trained devilishly on Derek’s face the whole time. The older man groaned softly; in his earlier days, that sight probably would’ve been enough to prep him for round two.

“You’re killing me, Kid,” Derek murmured softly. His fingertips were softly tracing Spencer’s jawline. The sheepish smile that Spencer shot back at him was painfully beautiful. “Why don’t you go lay down. I’ll find us some food, yeah?” Spencer nodded. They both giggled self consciously as they awkwardly pulled their pants back up. Derek reached out and swatted Spencer’s ass, “You fucking troublemaker. Go rest.”

Spencer started down the hallway but called back over his shoulder, “You didn’t seem to be complaining about all the trouble I was causing.”

Derek laughed and walked towards the kitchen, praying that Spencer had something edible in his refrigerator, but knowing that the odds were very slim.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me comments? I love comments so much. They seriously brighten my day, and I'm not above begging for them. Pleaseeee.


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